


Visions of the Past, Hands Clasped Together

by KChan88



Series: Visions of the Past [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 09:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras finds himself at an open-mic night with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, an open-mic night where Grantaire is singing, and the more Grantaire sings, the more the barricade from his dreams arises in his mind, the sharper the images are, and he is nearly overcome, unsure what he feels about Grantaire or if he can even admit it. All he knows is that as he looks into Grantaire's eyes as he sings, he feels the memory of a warm hand in his, love greeting death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visions of the Past, Hands Clasped Together

Enjolras trusts Courfeyrac with his secrets, he trusts Courfeyrac with his emotions and his thoughts, with helping run Les Amis if he falls ills, he trusts Courfeyrac with his very life, with everything. But perhaps he should _not_ have trusted Courfeyrac when he suggested going to this coffee shop on open-mic night for local musicians because right now he’s not altogether sure just what he’s feeling, what he’s thinking, what he’s doing, and for someone usually so incredibly clear-headed even during a much more serious crisis, that’s immensely maddening.

Grantaire is singing. Grantaire is playing guitar. And although Enjolras doesn’t know for certain, it feels like the words are for him somehow, as if the notes pierce through him with sharp edges of poignancy. There's shock in Grantaire's eyes at seeing them there, and a rare vulnerability unmasked by the absence of his sardonic smile that so rarely reaches his eyes, but he keeps strumming the guitar, keeps singing.

Enjolras is vaguely aware of Courfeyrac nudging him playfully in the ribs, his expression changing from glee to genuine concern when Enjolras doesn’t nudge back or react, his eyes darting back and forth across the café and inevitably back to Grantaire’s face. Joly told Courfeyrac that Grantaire accidentally let slip he'd be singing here today, and now Enjolras is here, both Courfeyrac and Combeferre looking at him in silent bewilderment, trying to read his thoughts as they usually do so well.

The music floats into Enjolras' ears, and for the tiniest moment he locks eyes with Grantaire, sees the ghosts of belief dancing across the green irises before mixing with dark, wispy shards of shadow, with wine stained cynicism and classical allusions. Yet somehow that small pinprick of light stays visible, still edges out in the darkness, the spark of hope Enjolras has always thought existed somewhere underneath the tattered layers of Grantaire’s soul, if only he himself knew it was there, if only he knew how to uncover it, because not Enjolras, not any of their friends, can do it for him. They can light the way, they can walk the path with him, but only Grantaire can complete that journey in full.

Enjolras has had dreams the past few months since graduating from law school, dreams of a barricade, dreams of guns and violence and blood, littered with moments of camaraderie, friendship and unrelenting sacrifice. First it was him, then Combeferre, then Grantaire, then Courfeyrac. Now Feuilly. They’ve all had similar dreams and are waiting to see if the others do as well, waiting to see if somehow reincarnation exists or they’re all sharing the same insane delusion. He looks at Grantaire again and sees the other part of his dreams that grow more vivid and intense each time they arrive in his mind, the part of the dream when tears stream down his face because he’s watched the people closest to him in the world perish before his eyes, the part of the dream where his body shakes from exhaustion, the part of the dream where his hands move so fast in battle that he doesn’t even know how he does it, the part of the dream where he tosses aside the remaining bit of his gun, folds his arms and refuses the blindfold, telling the national guardsmen to shoot him.

The part of the dream when Grantaire awakes and shouts that he is one of them, shouts “Long Live the Republic!” and walks over to Enjolras asking him softly, gently, if he permits it. The part of the dream where Enjolras takes Grantaire’s hand in his own and smiles, immense emotion rising within him as he sees the belief in Grantaire’s eyes, the understanding between them before their hands clasp tighter and the eight bullets strike him and black falls for a few moments before light swirls in, illuminating the room. It nearly blinds him as it spreads out over Paris. That’s when Enjolras usually wakes in a sweat, trying to catch his breath.

He sees these same hazy memories in Grantaire’s expression now and he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to _think_ , so he walks quietly out, overwhelmed by so much feeling that he's shaking. Enjolras feels more than what most people might deem normal, but as an adolescent he learned to channel his emotions, his compassion, his indignation, his anger, his melancholy, his joy, his hope, into his work, into his cause, into the glorious friends who stand beside him, learned how to combine his passion with his logic, which turned him into the orator and lawyer he is.

He goes outside the coffee shop and sits on a nearby bench, unable to even think of drinking the rapidly cooling coffee he holds. He's only alone for just the right amount of time before he hears Combeferre's familiar footsteps coming near, and then suddenly the man himself is squatting down in front of him, peering at him over the edge of his glasses, concern and empathy stirring in his hazel eyes. Enjolras calms a bit, feels his heart slow as Combeferre takes both of his hands securely in his own.

"Are you alright?" Combeferre asks, careful but sure.

"I..." Enjolras uncharacteristically stumbles. "I don't know. Grantaire. The singing. All the dreams we’ve been having. They feel like memories, and they’re even sharper when we’re awake, when we brush hands, when we sit closely. I _see_ you dying right in front of me, I _hear_ Courfeyrac’s cry of pain, I _feel_ Grantaire’s hand in mine.”

“I know,” Combeferre says, blinking away the wetness around his eyes as the visions of his own similar dreams burgeon in his eyes before he glances over at Courfeyrac, who hurries over to the pair of them and slides quietly onto the bench next to Enjolras, so close their sides touch, listening. “I don’t know what that is, yet. You don’t know what that is yet. None of us do. But this, this is a bit simpler, perhaps.”

Enjolras raises his eyebrows, disbelieving even as the truth dawns on him slow as the sunrise itself.

"My dear friend," Combeferre says, gentle. "I do believe this is called falling in love."

"I know what love is," Enjolras insists, trying not to sound annoyed. "I love all of you. More than my life."

"Of course you do and we know that. We love you very much in return," Combeferre says, smiling with genuine warmth. "I’m trying to perhaps suggest that you might be _in_ love with Grantaire. It’s love all the same, just of a different sort."

"No," Enjolras says flatly, but he doesn’t even belief himself. "I have never looked for that, and I cannot now. It will distract me."

"It won't," Combeferre says, squeezing his hands. "Nothing will distract you from your cause. You are the cause with every breath you take, and that, I very firmly suspect, is why Grantaire feels the way he does about you and he would not wish you to be anyone else or do anything differently. Something with Grantaire will not make Courfeyrac and I any less your best friends, it will not make Feuilly any less the friend you go to in zeal with new ideas, it will not change the bond over words you share with Prouvaire, will not cause you to stop challenging Bahorel to more boxing lessons much to his glee, and it will not quell the amusement in your eyes when Joly and Bossuet try to out pun each other and make the rest of us groan. You will still be you and all of us still ourselves. But this is something new you can add to your life. He's in love with you, Enjolras. And I can see it in your eyes that you feel the same. I am not of course, pushing you. I wouldn’t dream of it. I only see what I see and wanted to help you sort out your thoughts; it is utterly your choice as to whether you act upon it."

Enjolras lets Combeferre’s words sink into his mind, cherishing Courfeyrac’s warmth next to him in the chilly fall evening. He has never truly considered any kind of romantic relationship with any kind of specificity. Generally perhaps, as anyone might, but it’s never been something he thought he might personally desire, and up till now never has. But the growing warmth spreading to his fingers even in the cold, the feeling of Grantaire’s hand in his, speaks something different. The door opens again and all three of them turn around.

“Everything…okay?” Grantaire asks, clearly uneasy as he runs a hand through his tangled black curls.

“Completely,” Combeferre answers, giving Enjolras’ hands a quick squeeze before letting go and heading back toward the door.

“Refills, I think,” Courfeyrac says, picking up Enjolras’ nearly full cup and feigning as if it’s empty. “I _swear_ E, your blood system is made of caffeine.” He winks as he follows Combeferre back inside, the fond affection in his expression mixing with the mischief.

Grantaire takes Courfeyrac’s place on the bench, keeping a small space between them.

“That was a nice song,” Enjolras says, breaking the silence. “Did you write it?”

“I did,” Grantaire admits. “I was sober and everything when I wrote it too, can you imagine? Normally my best work comes under the fumes of wine or…something like that.”

“Hmmm,” Enjolras says, raising one eyebrow. “Doesn’t seem that way to me.”

Grantaire tilts his head, quirking his own eyebrows in response. “It doesn’t?”

“No,” Enjolras says simply, watching as Grantaire’s mask falls and he turns serious. “You usually denigrate your own talent, your own intelligence, for reasons I don’t understand.”

“Couldn’t have guessed you liked it by the way you walked out of there,” Grantaire responds in one final attempt at teasing, at the banter in which they are so comfortable. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m not sure if any of us having these dreams might be deemed all right,” Enjolras says smiling a little sadly now. “I remembered them again, when I heard you singing. You looked at me in there like you always do in those dreams and I didn’t quite know what I was feeling. Or rather wasn’t sure I could admit it to myself.”

Grantaire freezes for a moment, then puts his hands up in front of him as if fending off Enjolras’ words and slides further back down the bench.

“If you are going where I think you are,” Grantaire says. “You should probably stop right there.”

“Why?” Enjolras challenges.

“Because I am _not_ what you want,” Grantaire says, still kind, but firm as he shakes his head. “Don’t let some crazy dreams we all seem to be sharing addle your brain into thinking otherwise.”

“We are the only two who share that particular ending to the dream,” Enjolras argues. “Different points of view, but the exact same thing, memories that appear even when we’re awake, when any of us experiencing them touch each other for the briefest moment. You want to tell me that’s just a dream?”

“Maybe not,” Grantaire says, backing away as Enjolras leans closer. “But you cannot base something on hazy, half-real memories.”

“I’m not,” Enjolras insists, calm. “Have you ever known me to do such a thing? There is a particular kind of connection between us, it’s just never been as clear to me as it is now, and I am willing to try this if you are. If you don’t, if I’m wrong about your feelings, that’s perfectly fine, but do not shy away because you’re afraid.”

“You deserve better than me, Enjolras,” Grantaire says with a dash of bitterness, making to rise but Enjolras stops him by taking his hand and interlacing their fingers, both trembling now as if there are two people and two lifetimes residing within them.

“Don’t you dare do me that disservice,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire sits back down, still keeping hold. “I’m not doing this out of pity or some kind of honorable deed or because I think I can save you from yourself, or whatever that cliché phrase is…”

Quite suddenly Enjolras’ words are cut off by Grantaire’s lips on his, and he is stunned into silence. He doesn’t move for a moment, doesn’t respond until Grantaire starts pulling back, obviously unnerved by Enjolras’ lack of movement. Enjolras puts an unsure hand on Grantaire’s face before kissing him back, heat spreading through him.

It’s a slow kiss, a chaste one, but there is reverence and love pouring out of every moment, and somehow it feels incredibly natural. The memories spring up sharply in his mind, more vivid than ever before, more colorful and intense than in his sleep. Louder. Real.

“You bled for me,” Enjolras says, voice husky. “Died with me. I cannot…”

“Repay me?” Grantaire asks. “You don’t ever need to. You put hope back into me, put belief there when I fought so hard not to believe in anything. I didn’t think anything, let alone anyone, would ever break through that.”

Enjolras rests his head against Grantaire’s, relieved when Grantaire doesn’t pull away.

“If this is a second time,” Enjolras begins. “Even though there are not barricades, it will not be easy. The world is not yet what it should be. Better, certainly. Improving. But there is a battle still and it must be fought. I must fight it, I am not capable of anything less. You will bleed for me again, even if it is not physical blood.”

“I know. And I would not see you do anything else, would not have it any other way,” Grantaire replies, fully honest. “And I will not promise you that I am not still difficult and occasionally rather a mess. But permit me, right here like this,” he says, a real smile easing onto his face. “And perhaps we will find a way.”

Enjolras smiles back.

“I permit it,” he says. “But don’t go around always asking for permission, all right? I’m not some sort of king, God forbid.”

Grantaire kisses him again.

 

 


End file.
